


Hoodlum

by unpredictableclone



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Hood: Lost Days, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Afro-Latino Chinese Jason Todd, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Jason Todd and batfam, Jason Todd and kids, Jason Todd deserves better, Jason Todd has a medical degree, Jason Todd is THAT bitch, Other, Talia Al Ghul is a Good Mom, baby u r my ANGELLLLLLL, medic!Jason, minor OCs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-01-18 13:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12388611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unpredictableclone/pseuds/unpredictableclone
Summary: Hoodlum: a person who engages in crime and violence; a hooligan or gangster.Jason Peter Todd was born a hoodlum. His father was a one; like father, like son. Once a Crime Alley kid, always one.He was born to be an enemy.And perhaps that was why he was the hero that Gotham deserved.The Joker has suddenly gone silent and a couple weeks later, the Red Hood has come to Gotham, terrorizing the city— at least in Batman's eyes.Is it a coincidence for the Joker to become silent and then for his old persona make a sudden comeback?Batman thinks not.Or AU where Jason climbs his way out of hell, resulting in his resurrection .





	1. Father and Son

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where I was going with this. 
> 
> I just wanted to write my son. 
> 
> Inspired by these songs:[ Enemy by Seungrae](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c27YD6jXknc) and [ Daddy by Kumira](https://soundcloud.com/rightthere2222/daddy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason falls.  
> Jason climbs.

_'I'm sorry,'_ Is all the boy thinks of. _'Thank you.'_

His gloved calloused hand reaches upwards, as he falls down the black hole. 

_'Alice,'_ He vaguely recalls. _'Alice in Wonderland.'_

An invisible force, invisible arms and legs wrap around his body and drag him down. He shifts his shoulders and arms as best as he can, he can hear loud cracks— broken ribs and broken arms.

He can feel a burning heat radiating off from the bottom of the hole— his fucking ass is about to be lit on fire. On any other given day, he'd joke about it with Bruce and even Dick, _if_ he ever saw them again.

"Bruce!"

His throat burns. Something makes it's way up through his esophagus and up to his tongue. His taste buds relish the iron flavor. He coughs violently before letting the blood leak out and raspy voice to scream once more. 

"Alfred!" He screams out.

"Dick!" He's never called for Dick before, it's his first time. And not in _that_ way, _ya nasty._

Dick never comes home, and when he does, it isn't to visit him or Bruce. It's always to visit Alfred or maybe he's there to pick up some things he had forgotten. They spoke a couple of times, with the jobs they both have, it was only natural that they would have teamed up together at least once. 

The boy recalls the first time he ever worked with the young man, Dick had been neutral at the least but afterwards Dick gave him his original Robin costume and number. Told him that if Bruce becomes too much for Jason, he would always be welcome to his apartment and talk. 

Another time that they worked together, he clearly remembers what Dick had called him in a fond voice, "little wing," and then proceeded to cover his eyes from seeing the indecency of the situation. What Dick didn't know was that it wasn't new to him at all, but for some reason that simple small act activate a small warmth from the boy's chest. A small action that had big words, _"Dick cares,"_ he vaguely remembers thinking. _”Dick cares about me.”_

He doesn't know why he calls for them. He doesn't want to know why. He misses them.

_Dick. Alfred. Bruce— I'm sorry. Thank you._

But he knows that they won't come. He widens his hazel green orbs— the invisible force suddenly lets him go and he free falls to the bottom of the scorching pit.

_I'm sorry. Thank you._

But he knows that they won't come. He widens his hazel green orbs— the invisible force suddenly lets him go and he free falls to the bottom of the scorching pit.

His screams die out as he lands on his back, loud cracks exit his spine. His breath is knocked out of him; he's _broken._

But he gets up anyways, his skin blistering from the heat. His back and legs are numb and stiff, shaking as he struggles to stand. 

He doesn't know where is he, he doesn't know where's he's landed— he needs to get back, back to Batman, back to Bruce, back to his dad.

"Jason?" A soft voice calls for him.

His heart drops, Jason turns his head actively, trying to figure out where her voice originated from.

She calls for him again and he picks up his green military boots in a quickened pace, following the source of her sweet voice. His weakened legs find strength in her voice, they find strength in his curiosity and sweet memories full of hope. 

Her voice is filled with concern and uncertainty, and he wonders what his mother, Catherine, is doing in this hole. He picks up his pace.

The hole he's stuck in is very large, there are tunnels and hallways— like an ant colony, he thinks.

He takes a right, and then a left, and then another right. All he has is her voice to remember and follow, he doesn't dare to fail her once again. 

A maze, it's a maze— _Pac Man,_ Jason suddenly recalls.

The closer and closer he gets to the voice, the closer and closer he gets to her, he runs closer and closer to the eternal raging fire of the pit.

He's burning, his skin is set ablaze— _oh god,_ the warehouse. He could feel the explosion and the fire, his mother's screaming— _the smell—_ bile runs through the bottom of his stomach and out of his mouth. It's the smell of his _burning_ flesh. Freshly cooked. Freshly burnt.

"Jason!" Her voice breaks him away from his memories, a cold hand set on his sweating neck.

It's cold like when he held her body when he had found her— she was dead, Catherine,  
was dead and now he officially on his own now. Cold like his first Gotham winter by himself where he realized that what he needed to survive could only be found if he spread his mouth and legs for creepy old men and women. Cold like when he stumbled upon his mother's dealer being hold gunpoint in an alley one day and simply looked the other way when the trigger was pulled. Cold like when he was tied up and beaten to an inch of his life, and then blown up— murdered in _cold-blood._

"Mom?" He calls back to her, his gloved hands gently grabbing her frail ones.

There are tears falling from her honey colored eyes, and she puts on a sad smile.

"What are you doing here?" She asks, her voice choked up, small sobs escaping her mouth. Her hand moves and caresses his face.

He replies with a small frown.

"Mom, what are you doing here?" The young boy knows where he is. The blistering pain from the heat and the giant hole gives it away. He's not an idiot, he's number one in his class for a reason. 

Catherine ignores his question and pulls him into her arms. It's a stupid question and he knows. The things she made him do, the things she had done to him— sins that cannot be forgiven. 

He's a head taller than her now and she could feel how muscular he has become over the past years. She sobs even harder, her heart is swelling so fast that she can't contain it. He's grown up so much, so much better than he could have, he's so healthy and—

"You're so young," She cries. "You're _too_ young."

What is her little boy doing in hell?

He ignores her and tightens his grip on her hands. He began to gently drag her to the entrance. He'll fight him if he has to, if it's the only way for him and his mother to get the hell out. Before then, he was too young and too small to fight back, but he'll win this time.

"We're leaving this place, mom." His voice is lower than she remembers.

He makes the last turn when something bigger and stronger than him pulls back his cape from behind and throws him into the air. His hand disconnects from his mother's. He could never drag her down with him.

Jason's body bounces from the cave-like walls, it reminds him of the caves of home. But this isn't home, it isn't home at all.

He lands on his stomach and pushes his arms to lift his body up. He looks at the perpetrator. He hears laughter and it's different from the one he last heard. He knows this voice, this laughter.

Someone whom he thought to be Satan himself has come to greet him.

" _Mamón,_ you actually thought you were pure? You actually thought you could escape _that_ life?" The voice laughs again. "And how unbelievable for you to end up _here_ instead of up there!"

The boy doesn't say anything to this man.

He's not afraid. He's had worse. He's already met the Joker before. He'll be fine. He will be fine. But in these green Kevlar padded tights, in this red armored shirt, the little golden 'R' he bears suddenly feels like a curse rather than a blessing. His legs tremble, but his back straightens. Being Robin gave him magic. If he's endured Scarecrow, Two-Face, and the Joker, he'll be fine. He's not the scared little boy anymore. 

"You can't fly, _peinabombillas._ " The boy shuts his hazel orbs. He knows. He knows that.

"Eres un _canalla,"_ The voice laughs again. "How can a _pillo_ like you become a _petirrojo_ and a _murciélago? La mona aunque se vista de seda, mona se queda,_ don't you know?" 

He ignores him and looks up. There has to be a way for him to escape this hole, a way for him to climb up. A way for him to return to Bruce and Alfred. Maybe if he ignores him, he'll go away. 

"It's hilarious to see you and your puta of a mother here, chico. Well, I mean it’s to be expected, I guess.”

The blood in the boy's veins boil and his muscles tense. Honey and green eyes burn as he looks at the pathetic excuse of a man, a father, right in front of him.

"Don't get mad, _Robin."_ He steps towards his son, his arm reaching out. 

He ignores the name, and steps forward when he is immediately stopped by a large hand on his chest. Only one man had the right to call him that and this man had the _audacity_ to call him that and then _touch_ him? Oh _fuck_ no. 

The boy looks up at his father. His dark hair pushed back lazily and strays curled away from his matching thick brows. His jawline is covered by coarse black hair and his dark eyes sunken. His umber skin rotten, his smile bare and taunting. He looks exactly like him. _Like father, like son._

"Good to see you too, _cara de culo."_ The boy says, before his lips curve upwards. "I'm in a hurry but before I go, _te voy a dar una galleta!"_

Before he even ends his sentence, his gloved hands pound harshly onto his father's umber cheeks, their shared hazel eyes staring into each other as Willis falls into the ground. 

"You little shit." The man laughs.

A fist comes straight for the boy's face, but he knows better. He gently moves out of its course.

"Whoa, there," The aged man laughs. "You sound and move just like the Bat!"

His eyes scan the room. Four men and three women; all of whom he knows. His mother's dealer, his father, his first john, and another john whose number he can no longer remember. His mother runs to side as his real mother, Shelia Woods, stands before him, and the woman who pimped him out watches. 

_Seven_ , he counts. His seven sins.

He hears footsteps, more sinners appear. He recalls the majority of them as his past johns and criminals that he helped imprison with Batman.

He shuts his eyes for not even a second and they all jump on him. Some one by one and others all together. His arms and legs are pulled and twisted from all directions as the blistering sensation spreads throughout his body. He screams and screams.

A crowbar slamming into the side of his face, his ribs, his legs. Just _'whack,'_ and _'whack'_ and _'whackwhackwhack—'_

 _'—So this is hell,'_ He thinks to himself as another part of him calls out to his family, calling for help.

His throat runs dry faster than he wants it to, and all he could hear is cracking— _his bones cracking_ — and the only odor is could smell is the burning of his flesh and the strong iron of his blood. He tastes the saltiness of his tears, his metallic blood, and the spew of his last meal mixed with his stomach acid.

They're holding down his body, they're pushing down on him, pulling him apart, kicking and punching him; he feels himself sinking further and further down hell. Catherine and Sheila are dragged and beaten down with him. He could feel them trying to over his body from the perpetrators, but he has grown too big for them to completely do so. Shelia's long black strands overlap with Catherine's taupe waves, shielding his eyes. Their cries and screams become one with his.

"Stop! Please stop!" He could hear them plead. "He's just a boy, he's just a little boy!"

If he never sold himself, perhaps he'd never be down here. If he died with his mother, either Catherine or Sheila, perhaps he'd never be down here. If he never was his _father's_ son, perhaps he'd never be down here.

His father was a hoodlum; like father, like son. His father was sent to hell; like father, like son.

But Jason was sure that _he'd_ never end up here. But he wasn't his father. He could never be, the blood bond was not there. Bruce was not his real father, no matter how much Jason wished for him to be. That perhaps somehow, Sheila and Bruce had some connection and got drunk one night and ended up having a one night stand. That perhaps somehow, he could have truly been saved; saved from the abuse from Willis, from the johns, from his madam, from the cold and life sucking Crime Alley, and from the Joker.

If maybe Shelia Woods never became Shelia Woods, if she was never adopted into the States from China, would he still have been born? Maybe not as Jason Todd (hopefully) and none of this would have happened. Or maybe if Catherine never got back with Willis and stayed sober as she had, none of this would have happened. Jason thinks about it and thinks about it; who would he be if not Jason Peter Todd: son of Willis Todd and Shelia Woods, foster child of Catherine Todd, and street rat? A sharp pain emerges from Jason's chest, a ponder and a memory— if he was Jason Peter Todd, he'd never become Jason Peter Todd-Wayne. 

_'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Bruce. Thank you.'_

The masked boy could feel his body go limp— his hazel eyes widening in pure shock and realization. Limp? _Limp?!_ He wasn't a quitter; Bruce raised him better! 

Bruce wasn't coming. Alfred wasn't coming. Dick wasn't coming either. Not even Babs nor Commissioner Gordon. His aunt, Kate, wasn't coming either. Not Wonder Woman and not Superman. Not Green Lantern, Aquaman, or Green Arrow. No one was going to save him. 

Robin, Boy Wonder, was Dick Grayson. Robin, Boy Terror, was Jason Todd.

And he'd be damned if he didn't fight back, if he didn't show them what terror he brought! Who cares if he was a monkey dressed in silk, pretending to be someone he wasn't, but he was better than this. He was better than his father, Willis. 

Bruce raised him better than this!

"Oh, _fuck_ off!" He roars from the deepest and loudest voice he could get and it shakes the very walls and floors of hell.

 _Crack, crack, crack!_ Goes his bones. He gently tears off Catherine and Sheila and roars once more.

"Fuck off! _Chingate!_ " He howls. His muscles are torn and feel as if they were that wet cloth that Alfred uses when he cleans his wounds for him; twisted in opposite directions. He can hear his muscles tearing apart, ripping away. Pain ripples left from right and up and down his body, but he can no longer feel anything. Bruce taught him how to psychologically numb the pain away. 

He bellows and lifts himself from the stone floor. He grabs the first person he sees, his first john. His fists connect with his pathetic pale face, his lanky figure flies a foot away from Jason. He doesn't stop for a second before throwing his fists to the next person in line; his father, the other johns, the dead criminals. The blood flowing inside of him is hot and boiling, his heart pumping like a loud drum.

He used to be afraid of them, too weak to win against them, but Bruce raised him better. Bruce taught him to be better, faster, stronger.

His body doesn't stop moving, he's flying in the air, kicking and punching. The blood in his veins are in flames, his skin blistering and bursting as he fights. _These bastards, these assholes, all of them deserved to die!_ They deserved this hell, this punishment, and they deserved more pain. Fuck these guys! Jason doesn't stop even when his gloves are drenched in red. They all go down one by one, bloodied and defeated until there's only Sheila, Catherine, and him alive and standing. 

Out of breath and energy, Jason rests his bloodied knuckles on his matching knees. His uniform used to be red, yellow, and green; but now it was just vermillion and crimson. He can't tell the difference between his own blood and the blood of the damned. 

Batman never taught him to kill, but it didn't matter since they were already dead anyways. So fuck it anyways. Fuck these guys.

Something twitches in his soul, in his heart, an instinct. A single golden feather softly floats down in front of him. His tired arm trembles as he reaches out to it. The second he touches it, the feather withers into ash and fades.

He could grow wings and fly Shelia and Catherine out.

His hazel orbs look over to his mothers, a painful expression sat on their faces. Catherine opens her arms to him and Jason walks over to her. Shelia rubs his back as Catherine guides him to the wall of the cave and they both gently lift him up.

He does not have wings. He cannot carry them out of this pit. A street rat doesn't have any wings. _But street rats do what they have to do in order to survive._ They climb up from the sewers to the dark alleys. They bite and they sink their teeth into things and never let go. 

He trapped here; they are trapped here. His hand slips, but his toes that resided in his green military boots stuck on to the wall, he was getting higher and higher. He's going to sink his teeth into whatever there is and never let go. Bruce didn't raise no quitter, and so Jason keeps on climbing; his body moving slowly and trembling from extreme use. 

The blistering heat cools as he climbs higher and higher, his body getting sorer and sorer, and he wonders if he will even make it out to the top.

But Jason wasn't a quitter.

Tired, exhausted, and quenched; he keeps on climbing. If he could scale buildings in Gotham, he could scale himself out of this hole. 

His thighs and biceps are giving in now, heavy and strengthless, but he has to keep on going. He's going to get out. He's going to live. He's going to live, he's going to return home, he's going back to Bruce and Alfred and Dick. The world fucked him over and he'd be damned if he didn't do the same to the world.

Entireties pass by, he's worn out. He wants to go home and sleep in his bed. He wants to snuggle himself in the red satin sheets and thick blankets that lie on his bed. He wants to dunk his heavy head on the fluffy pillows that he begged Bruce to buy for him, and he wants it to envelop around his sore neck and give him peace.

He wants for Bruce and Alfred to bid him goodnight before he heads off to bed. He wants to wake up refreshed and to head to the kitchen to help Alfred like he usually does and eat breakfast with Bruce as he reads the morning paper and blab to him about his vivid dreams that he had the night before.

He'll get ready for school and go to class to see his AP chemistry teacher, Mrs. Hei, and continue the lessons from the day before; turn in his lab report that he knows he did well on, and explore further on the experiments in the lab. 

He'll go see his counselor, Mr. Bodin, who's bright, joking and understanding personality guided Jason's academic and personal decisions; his second mentor and second father, secrets told to him that he could never tell Bruce or small insecurities he could never bother Bruce with. He wants to tell him about a new book that he had found in the Wayne Manor Library, Demian by Herman Hesse, and suggest it for their book club and volunteering club to read next. 

He wants to see his school therapist, Mrs. Nadia, who's understanding and compassionate personality helps Jason who treats him like a friend and an elder sister figure. Her advice never fails Jason, he loved how no matter insecure he was about anything, she always presented reasonable and possible options for solutions. It was also helpful that she herself was a person of color who understood the daily prejudice and micro aggressions he had to go through everyday in public. Surely she'd be interested in listening to what he had to say about his trip to hell. 

His green tattered fingers grip onto the small curves and indents of the walls. He does not have wings but he will climb his way out of here. He will climb back home. He will return to Bruce and Alfred, and he will finally try to connect with Dick and maybe Bruce will allow him to join the Teen Titans.

He's gonna go to graduate as valedictorian from Gotham Academy and he's gonna get a full ride to Princeton. He's gonna grow up and become his own hero, like Dick had, and he's gonna return home to see Alfred and Bruce on weekends and holidays. He's gonna grow up, he's gonna grow up, he's gonna—

—It doesn't _matter_ anymore. He's _dead._

Jason wakes up in the dark, gasping for air; his body bloodied and broken, confined in a small space.

Bruce was not a quitter and neither was Jason.

_Like father, like son._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mamón: a mama’s boy; an idiot or a dick; bastard. 
> 
> Peinabombillas, Pillo: street rat. 
> 
> “Eres un canalla,”: You are a street rat.
> 
> Petirrojo: robin. 
> 
> Murciélago: bat. 
> 
> “La mona aunque se vista de seda, mona se queda,”: A monkey dressed in silk is still a monkey. 
> 
> Cara de culo: ass face or asshole. 
> 
> “Te voy a dar una galleta!”: I’ll give you a cookie; meaning that you’ll receive a beating or a hit. 
> 
> Chingate: fuck you.


	2. Mother and Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason has returned to his mother, to his kingdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter compared to the first.
> 
> Vaguely inspired by this song: [Mommy by Kumira](https://soundcloud.com/rightthere2222/mom)

If Gotham was a person, she’d be an old whore. She’d reek of cigarettes, dirty laundry, and cheap perfume.

Her makeup would be done poorly, too much eyeliner that made her eye bags and dark circles emphasized. Her red lipstick would be smeared around the edges of her lips from the cigarettes rolling on her mouth. Her foundation would crease where her wrinkles were, along with the power she’d use to set it. Her blush would be a mauve pink that set nicely on her baggy cheeks.

Her voice would be low and hoarse, raspy from her tar coated lungs.

“Listen, kid.” She’d probably say to Jason. “You _look_ like shit.”

Jason would smile at her and throw his head back to laugh. He’d tell her that she did too before reaching over to give her a kiss on her cheek.

“Gracias, mamá.” Jason would say to her, a bright smile on his sun-kissed face, his sea green eyes gleaming.

If Gotham was a person, she’d be Jason’s mother. She’d give him tough love and treat him like shit, but if he was never toughened up, he’d never survive. Better than Catherine and Sheila, but just as cruel. It didn't matter, he has mommy issues either way. 

If you were born in Gotham, you were born her soldier through and through. But nonetheless, Jason loved Gotham from the bottom of his heart. Perhaps he was a soldier infected with Stockholm syndrome. But he knew, he knew he was her strongest soldier, her most beloved son.

And so, after a long five years, the boy returned.

A part of him is shocked, another part of him unsurprised. The city is still ridden with crime, the Bat has done nothing in the last five years.

Of course, the Bat was a soldier too, along with the replacement, but they’ve never and will not ever know what the war was like. The Golden Boy and the brat weren’t born as soldiers but were recruited into the war. Yes, though they all fought on the battlefield, they weren’t _born_ in it, never _lived_ in it like Jason had.

Jason was the starving homeless children on the streets; he was the desperate and “baby faced” street corner prostitutes; and he was the hoodlums, the crime lords. Jason was the true son of Gotham, her _true_ heir.

None of them; not Batman, not Replacement, not Nightwing, and definitely not Batbrat could understand what Gotham really needed or deserved.

Gotham has reminded the same, but _he_ hadn't.

He’s grown taller, three inches at the least, and he’s gained 50 pounds of muscle since he’s left the city– or since he _died_ , if you wanted to use a more accurate term. Any trace of childhood malnourishment vanquished.

His thick Kevlar padded boots take him into a dark alley, a typical alley you can find anywhere in Gotham.

Surprisingly, at this time of night there isn’t anyone out in the streets– and even if there were, no one questions anyone in the streets of Crime Alley.

The smell of cigarettes, sex, and drugs fill the air of Crime Alley; it’s the smell of Gotham herself in the flesh. It’s the smell of home.

He’s met with a manhole cover. He kneels down towards it and his gloved fingers grip the edges. It makes a soft beeping noise as a small red laser scans his icy green eyes. He hears a small unlocking mechanism before he lifts the manhole cover up, the metal making clunking noises. He softly puts it aside and climbs in the manhole before recovering it. _Click, click!_ The manhole cover locks.

He climbs down a couple of steps of the ladder before thinking _‘Fuck it,_ ’ and jumps to the bottom. He don’t got time to fucking go down each little step of the ladder. He’s here for motherfuckin’ business.

He lands gracefully– _no_ – he sticks the landing! His knees bend a little and he regains his standing posture before looking around the safehouse.

It’s small: right away he spots the bed; the crimson walls are caged, all covered in guns and swords; and if he walks beyond the bed, he’ll be in the kitchen and there’ll be a small bathroom on the right. It’s small, but he doesn’t mind. It’s less cleaning to do, easier to organize his shit.

He walks towards the emerald satin sheets of the bed and spots a red helmet, one he could cover his whole entire head with, and a small piece of paper.

He picks up the small note.

_'With love, Talia.’_

He let’s out a small chuckle, before grappling the crimson helmet. He takes another look around the room, and his blue green orbs spot a glass case. It’s set nicely across the bed.

Inside it is a grey costume with a red hood logo and a red rubber helmet. There’s a golden plate placed below the costume that said, _'The Red Hood’._

Talia must’ve found it back at the compound where he hidden it. He didn’t put it in display like this, she did.

A glass case.

A _trophy._

Like a proud mother, she places the costume in a glass case for others to see and to remember.

A smirk appears on the sun-kissed man’s lips. His wavy raven hair and the patch of white strands curls in above his dark eyebrows, his icy green orbs filled with mischief and a cold calculating glint.

Gotham stayed the same, but he didn’t. Batman wasn’t enough to change her, Jason would. After all, he was her true son.


	3. A New Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman marks a new enemy. 
> 
> A short chapter in Batman's point of view.

It's been three weeks since the Joker was last seen. It's been three days since someone claiming to be the Red Hood has assimilated himself as a crime lord by killing competition and recruiting new members into his gang.

The Joker's never this quiet unless he was planning something big, something terrible. Something that would force Batman to do the impossible. His silence is foreshadowing.

Not only does the Joker's silence worry him, the appearance of the Red Hood worries him too. The mantle of Red Hood was originally the Joker's, _how_ coincidental for Joker to go silent and for Red Hood to make a splash in the dark waters of Gotham.

Batman doesn't like this. He doesn't like it one bit.

In the past _three days_ , _twelve_ people have been killed. All criminals; six convicted or suspected of either rape, child molestation, or child trafficking; and four convicted and/or suspected of drug and sex trafficking; and two being the most influential of Gotham's underground. Every hoodlum working under those crime lords were sent to hospital. Batman knows that there will be more victims. 

Just when does Joker not kill innocents? Is this one of his tricks?

The uneasiness spreads wider and wider from bat vigilante's broad chest.

He re-watches the Red Hood's techniques: nothing but swift and _savage_ movements and a gunshot or two to either their heads or hearts. In some cases, their _crotches_. The crimson helmet of the man covers his whole face, no mouth but only eyes. From the footage, Batman estimates that he's at least 6'0 and 225 lbs. Two inches shorter than the Bat himself but a full 15 pounds _heavier._

He's fast, _very_ fast. He swoops into the personal space of the criminals and hits them _brutally_ hard and quick. He doesn't leave a chance for them to fight back, his intentions are to end this fight rabidly and is merciless. The punks and criminals of Gotham have no chance winning against him. 

Sometimes, if the criminals were stupid enough to set up cameras with bad security around, the Red Hood stares at the cameras for a couple of lingering seconds, almost in a _mocking_ way. He knows where the cameras, he knows that Batman has the capabilities of hacking into them very easily. He _wants_ him to watch. 

The Red Hood is dangerous, Batman concludes. He is not to be trifled with. Too dangerous for Batgirl and Robin to take on. For now, he'll only send the adults to deal with the Red Hood: Nightwing, Batwoman, Azrael, and Black Bat. 

The Red Hood is an _enemy._

And a _dangerous_ one, to add to that.


	4. Memories of a Street Kid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason sees the memories of a street kid.

It's been years, Jason thinks. 

His tall stature walks the dark wet alleys of Crime Alley, his heavy footsteps scaring away nearby thugs. They knew it was him. It's impressive, he thinks to himself. He's been here a week, making a pretty loud splash in the murky waters of Gotham and the Bat hadn't shown himself yet. 

The women on the street nod heads at him and he vaguely recalls their faces. Sherry, who went by Cherry now, was a face he often walked passed by as a kid. They never talked, she had loving parents but lived on the wrong side of town. They both died, leaving her to the broken Child Services Gotham had. Jason eventually found out that she escaped the abuse of it only to be abused by the dark reality of the Red Light District of Crime Alley. 

Cherry smiles at him, her concealer cakey and her eyeliner runny. She's trying to cover something up. But the Red Light District of Crime Alley is the Red Hood's territory. 

"Hey, Cherry." He says, the modulated voice from the helmet is set lower and gruffer than his real voice, but still executes the kind tone. 

"Hey, Hood." She greets back. Her voice is hoarse. The night was still young but everyone has different nights and mornings. In Cherry's case, Jason assumed, was that the night was too old. 

Jason gently caresses her face, her cheeks still bouncing with youth. 

"Who did this to you?" He asks. He doesn't want to scare her into telling him, but the bruise she was covering was pretty recent. Violence against women was a no-no in Hood's book. 

She softly falls into his hand. 

"No one," She says, her red painted nails quietly land on his. Her kind smile still retains, but her soft honey eyes almost seem scared. 

Jason carefully pulls away from Cherry. 

"It's okay, you don't have to tell me if you don't wanna." He says. Jason assumes that it must be her boyfriend and he'll have a 'talk' with him later. 

His gloved hands reach into the inside of his brown leather jacket and he pulls out his black wallet. He grabs a couple of hundreds and gently grabs Cherry's hands. A small business card is slipped in between the money. It read: 

Red Hood.

Gotham Crime Lord and occasional handyman.

XXX-XXX-XXXX.

It's a burner cell, one of many. He isn't that stupid. 

"Take good care of yourself and call me if you need to, okay?" He places the money into her hands before softly patting her exposed shoulder.

Cherry's mouth is open, like she wants to say something, but she closes it. 

"Thanks, Hood. I will." She says before Jason continues his way walking through his territory. 

He can't remember the last time he walked around in Crime Alley. Batman always made sure that he took the high road: running across and jumping off buildings. It made sure that he didn't get lost easily and most importantly, it made sure that he stood clear from criminals. 

He keeps on walking. These were the very streets that Jason used to run through, the same where he used to stand in the corners in, the same where he used to sleep on. He recalls him and a couple of other kids standing on the corner, waiting for someone to buy them. He remembers how dreadful it was, his heart falling to his stomach every time he was bought, how he lost a little bit of him each time. He was lucky though, compared to some other kids. 

He was lucky _Bruce_ had gotten him off the streets. 

He walks around the street corner when he suddenly spots a couple of kids standing there. These kids, they were... what he used to be. Crime Alley was his now, it was the Red Hood's territory, and child prostitution was a no-no in his books. 

"Hey, kiddos." He greets them. These kids, couldn't have been over the ages 12 to 15, stare at him with wide eyes full of fear. Jason wonders if it's a good sign that the Red Hood should be fearful and after all, it wasn't like he was Robin anymore. It wasn't like he was a hero anymore. Heroes don't kill. He wasn't a good role model anymore. 

His hand slides into his jacket again, pulling out his wallet. He wonders if he should carry more money around if he runs into the working ladies and other kids. He'll get more when he runs into one of his safe houses around the area. 

"Go home and don't do this again." He hands out a couple of hundreds and a business card to each kid. "Call me if you need anything." 

The kids eagerly take and and disperse. He makes a note to deal with any remaining pimps or madams soon. But maybe... Maybe he can do more for them? ~~Like _Bruce_ did for him.~~ Like _Talia_ had done for him. 

He watches as the kids run off to the nearest Mcdonald's to catch their first meal of the day. The eldest of the group, a young boy with black curly hair and terracotta skin gathers some of the sleeping children from the dark alleys to join them. The kids called him Jacob, and it was almost eerie how similar he reminded Jason of someone in the memories of a street kid. 

Just like he did back then, he remembers, when he gathered the courage to fight against his madam and gathered the younger workers to join him. Like when he encouraged the other children on the streets live with him and the others, when he had promised to protect and provide for all of them. Their time together only lasted six months; before Bruce took him in, he lost contact with all seven of them. He wonders if they grew up okay, if some of them are still alive; were they able to live a normal, better life or were they manipulated into the lives that Gotham had birthed them to be? He should find them, check up on them. 

_No,_ they're just memories of a street kid. 

A _dead_ street kid. 

They don't matter anymore. 

"Mr. Hood, Black Mask requests to speak to you," A voice calls to him through the screens in his red helmet. His subordinate, an older man named John. Overall a nice dude, someone with similar views as he did. 

"Understood," He replies, walking to somewhere more private. Like anyone would want to have a very important conversation in the middle of the streets of Crime Alley. 

A small voice lurks in the back of his mind, and he thinks back to his memories-- the memories of a street kid-- he should find them, check up on them.


	5. Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Business is always fucked up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I've been MIA for a while. I've been overwhelmed with midterms, finals, extra-curriculum activities, and tons of family things. My winter break officially starts next week and I'll have until January 8th for next semester to start, but my dad's funeral is going to be on December 15th, 16th, and 17th (I'm Hmong, Hmong funerals are usually three days).

Being a crime lord ain't easy.

It's business.

Last night was a big win for Jason but the sun came up and he couldn't wait for it to fall back down again. He needs to continue his work.

His safehouse reeks of iron and death; the bodies of the lieutenants still lay on the cold stone floor. He makes a note to dispose of them tonight and clean up soon.

Killing people and beheading them ain't easy. Neither is cleaning up their bodies, but hey.

It's business.

The young man sighs, wrapping himself in the crimson thick sheets. Like a vampire, he sleeps during the day and stays awake at night. He snuggles deeper into the bed and closes his celadon orbs, his dark long lashes combine and thicken.

His eyes were hazel like Willis' before he was thrown into the pit. He doesn't remember what they look like anymore, if they were more brown or green, he can't remember. Not that he cares or anything. Fuck Willis.

His tan skin is bruised and scarred underneath the blanket, his thick dark curls are tangled together but he doesn't care. Even that weird streak of white strands that gently hang above his face have joined and tangled in with the rest of his strands.

Jason used to straighten his hair when he went out as Robin. It was Bruce's idea, he didn't want people to easily point out the difference between Dick and Jason. But it's not like it made anything harder for people to distinguish that Batman got a new Robin, if anything it made it easier.

Jason was only eleven when took the mantle. Dick was sixteen when he became Nightwing. At the end of Dick's Robin career, he was getting pretty tall and meaty— already good outgrowing Robin before his relationship with Bruce went a little sour. When Jason started his career as Robin, he was tiny. Not as small and scrawny as he could have been without meeting Bruce, but nonetheless still pretty tiny— reminders of near severe malnutrition and a harsh lifestyle.

"A tiny little _baby,"_ Bruce once teased him, gently pinching his chubby cheeks and kissing each side harshly but lovingly. "You're my tiny little baby, JJ."

He was nine, but he was the size of a five year old.

"I'm not a baby!" He huffed and pouted angrily, his face red from embarrassment and the remains from Bruce's treatment. But his hazel orbs glistened and glittered, he was Bruce's tiny little baby, he was Bruce's son. Bruce only rolled back his neck and laughed, then he kissed his cheek even harder than he did before. He rewraps the giant fluffy emerald blanket around the little boy like a burrito and secures him tightly before curling his muscled arms around his son.

"Oh, Jaylad." He cooed. "Jaybaby."

"I'm _nine!",_ The little boy yelled, struggling to escape from his father's hold. "I'll be ten next year, ya big boob!"

He can feel Bruce lift him up and gently rock him. He's almost tilted sideways, he's being held like a newborn.

"You'll always be my tiny little baby, champ." Bruce snuggles him closer into his chest, swinging him carefully, before twirling rapidly.

"Dad, no!" The butterflies in the boy's stomach turn into dread, dinner quickly making its way up to his mouth. "Dad, stop!"

The boy could feel the contents of Alfred's hard made brunch swishing in his stomach, and it was not good. Bruce laughs again, spinning him even faster. The voice of the laughter, it's suddenly not Bruce's anymore. The spinning finally stops.

"Forehand or backhand?"

Jason throws up.

The blanket, the green on that Bruce bought him, became chains. The only movement he can see is that old bloody crowbar. It comes up and then it comes down. Up and down. Down and up. Up, down, up, down. Down, up, down, up. He cannot move. It reeks of blood, his blood. The iron taste lingers on his tongue, the smell of it stinking up the whole warehouse.

Jason's celadon eyes shoot open, he springs up from the bed. His hands tightened around his kris dagger underneath the pillow, his heart racing. His breathing uneven for a moment, his brain still processing that nothing's wrong, you'll be okay, nothing's wrong.

Nightmares are a part of business and Jason refuses the urge to puke. But the... the smell of blood still remains.

The young man finally leaves his god forsaken bed in his gray boxers and opens the bathroom door. The cabinet underneath the sink squeaks as he opens it. There lays yellow rubber gloves and box of cleaning supplies. He hastily grabbed them.

It doesn't take him long to enter the room with the large metal door. The door is heavy but he effortlessly opens it, almost as if it was muscle memory.

Jason comes across the headless corpses. He puts on several items from the box. With a surgical mask, he covers his nose. His apron covers his near naked body, and his hands are protected by the rubber gloves.

He wastes zero time as he cuts away the clothing from the corpses. _Snip, snip, snip,_ goes the surgical scissors. _Slick, slick, slick,_ goes the knife as it sliced away the corpse. _Thud, stomp, bang,_ goes the limbs as they drop into the black trash bag.

It's business, he reminds himself, as he grabs the next limb. The torso has a white tiger tattoo placed on the middle. John #45, Jason recalls. He was a regular back in the day. He throws it in the trash bag, where it belongs with the others.

It's business, he reminds himself.

In the long hours of a silent day in Gotham, all Jason could hear was the brushing of the mop and the splashing of the water as he cleaned up after his mess.

_Brush, brush, brush. Splat, splat, splat!_ Rinse and repeat, but the smell of blood still lingers.

He can spray Frebreeze into the air but it'll be able to cover up the smell of his burning flesh and the scent of blood. Whether or not the blood was his or not, he can't tell the difference. The blood has already stained his hands, his flesh, his soul.

It's business.

Night finally falls again and the trash has been dumped.

The business opens once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always wondered what Jason did when the corpses after he beheaded them.


	6. Trash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trash is found.

Bruce wants to throw up after seeing the heads of the lieutenants' after Commissioner Gordon had showed him as evidence against the Red Hood. It doesn't take him that long after to find the remains of their limbs in a trash bag on the Wayne Tower; Lucius had called it in.

He mentioned how odd it was for a black trash bag to be sitting on top of the baloney of the Wayne Tower, specifically the baloney of Bruce Wayne's office. Lucius had gone into the office to do his job like he does everyday, and found it suspicious for a black trash bag to appear there.

Batman takes the bag back to the cave and analyzes it. Robin offered to help but this... Tim didn't need to see this. It was better off if he were out with his Titan friends, being with people who understood him and supported him, someone not as _emotionally detached_ as Batman. He sends Robin to patrol without him tonight.

Batman cuts the trash bag open, and the smell hits him harder than Superman could. He turns his face away from the bag and what little he had left from Alfred's dinner had slipped its way up to his mouth.

He cuts and cuts away until... until he finds the trash.

The trash looks at him. It looks at him with its hollow eyes, mouth full of blood and toothless. His signature smile has turned upside down, his wrinkles deep and apparent. His head was smashed in, he was like _ooblek,_ both liquid and solid. He had been beheaded, the rest of his flesh had been _liquified_ and filled with gunshot wounds, just how _long_ was he in this trash bag for?

Batman turns away from the trash, his hand over his ear, pressing the comm.

"Oracle," He calls. "Are you there?"

"Yeah, B?" Oracle answers immediately, the clicking and clacking of fingertips as they hit the keyboard could be heard in the background. She was hardworking as always, even after everything had happened, she was so determined and motivated.

"I found him," He starts out. He isn't quite sure how to say it, he's still trying to process it. "I've found the Joker."

Bruce could hear Barbra gasp. "Are you okay? What's his plan? Do you need backup? I'm tracking your location and notifying Nightwing and Robin right now."

The sounds of the keyboard had gotten louder and faster.

"No, Oracle." Batman's voice is still calm as ever. "The Joker, he's dead."

The clicking and the clacking stop.

"He's dead, Oracle."

_He's dead and you're safe. He's dead and you're finally safe, Barbara._

Batman waits for Robin and Nightwing to come back to the cave, so they can all analyze situation together.

Batman waits, Bruce thinks. Hidden behind disgusted feelings of the murders and the bodies, oddly enough there was a small swell of... relief in his chest Bruce could not control.

He should've been dead sooner, _should've been dead after what happened to Jay, could've prevented what happened to Barbara and hundreds of others— should have killed him sooner, Bruce._

_Pathetic._

Batman couldn't throw out the trash, but Bruce would have. _God,_ it would have been _so_ easy! Just to _shoot_ that bastard in the face, to smash his _fucking_ skull in, to _let_ him _die!_ But Batman didn't kill. Batman was a symbol of hope in a hopeless city, he let the children of Gotham feel _safe_ again, he let the children _grow_ into their dreams, he let them _believe_ in the greater good! He couldn't let _them_ down— _oh_ , but he let _Jason_ down. He let the _hundreds_ of innocent victims down. He let _Barbara_ down.

Batman was trash for letting them down. Bruce was trash for wanting to end the Joker's life. Bruce would have let Batman down. But Batman would never let Bruce Wayne down. That's just who Batman was, but he would let his partners and innocents down. It was weird and ironic because Bruce could no longer control Batman, even though he was Batman, and Batman had full control of Bruce.

The man couldn't tell who was who anymore.

One said, _"Sacrifices have to be made,"_ and the other said, _"No one's life is ever above anyone else's,"_ and it was funny because both would have said either things depending on the situation. 

The man couldn't tell who was who anymore, if he was Bruce Wayne: a loving and caring father, who unconditionally loves his children and would do anything for them; or if he was Batman: vigilante, savior of the world, hero of Gotham, who loved Gotham with all of his heart.

The Bat and the father constantly yell at each other, arguing what is wrong as what is right; the Bat understands where the father is coming from, but he cannot agree with killing. The father no longer believes in the Bat, just what good is he if he let his son's _murder_ on the loose? Just what good is he if he let him _continue_ his way of terrorizing and murdering the people of the city he _claims_ to love so much? His son is dead, the people whom he loved and cared for are dead and have been terrorized, _the trash needed to be taken out!_

The man watches the father lash out and the Bat silently take in the anger. The man silently debated whether if he is the man or the father. The man couldn't tell anymore, but he knew that both were trash. _He_ was trash. He knows that all _three_ of them are trash.

He should've taken the trash out sooner.


	7. Rotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a rotten smell in the cave...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wassup, it's ya sad bitch, returning gracefully after a two month long depressive episode. 
> 
> Thought it'd be interesting to add other POV's up in this bitch.

The air hit Dick's nostrils and the taste of the salmon that Alfred had made for dinner had no problem working its way from his stomach up to his tongue.

He and Tim had just returned to the cave after their nightly patrol and this was not a good way to end the night.

Tim gives him a wary look, his face scrunched up and looking for guidance; just what did Bruce bring in to make the entire cave smell like shit?

There was only one way to find out.

Bruce didn't react when the two drove into the cave and parked their bikes and only acknowledged them when they were a couple of feet away from him.

"Bruce?" Dick cautiously called out to his father figure.

Bruce doesn't answer for a couple of seconds.

"The Joker's dead." He simply says.

Dick and Tim look at each other and continue walking towards the source of the stench.

Trash, Dick vaguely thinks. He spots the black plastic trash bag and glances at the contents inside.

Oh hell no.

Dick's striped fingers immediately reach over to Tim's eyes, blinding him from what was to be seen.

"Tim, why don't you hit the showers first?" Dick sweetly asks, his other hand guiding the younger boy beyond the trash and towards the showers. "Bruce and I need to have a serious conversation. Besides, it's a school night."

"But, Di—" Tim protests, his gloved hands reaching over to Dick's hand, the one gently placed in front of his mask.

"—School night, baby bird." Dick reminds Tim. "I saw your report card, young man. You don't want me to tell Alfred now, do you?"

"I—" before Tim could finish what he was going to say, Dick removes his hands from Tim's mask; revealing the door of the men's showers that Bruce had built specifically for heroes. Bruce had built civilian bathrooms and showers for victims of crimes and hero bathrooms for any hero or civilians that had happened to be in the Cave for whatever reason. It was meant to protect the identities of heroes' alter egos: in case an enemy had taken the guise of a helpless civilian and would have taken DNA from the shared bathrooms to expose them. Dramatic, but it's Bruce; what did you expect?

Dick doesn't waste a second and gently pushes the teenage boy into the showers, quickly closing the door behind him. His lightweight boots make quick steps to his father figure.

"What happened?" He asks.

"Where's Robin?" Bruce deflects.

"Showering," Dick explains. "I'll explain the situation to him later."

Bruce nods before continuing. Perhaps it was best for Dick to explain this to Tim, Dick was less intense and easygoing than Bruce after all.

"He was tortured to death." Bruce widens the black trash bag to reveal the remains to his first son. "Ten stab wounds in total on his torso and thighs; ten gunshot wounds to his head to his calves; and extreme blunt trauma to his head, ribs, and thighs."

Hollow eyes stare into the sky blue orbs underneath Dick's white lens. Bruce doesn't stop talking.

"His eyes were stabbed in, presumably with the unsub's fingers, and his body was dismembered post mortem." Bruce takes a small pause. "This was an act of pure rage and pure hate that were perfectly calculated."

A part of Dick yells, _'Thank, God!'_ And the other shouts, _'Jesus fucking Christ! What or who the hell?!'_

"Well," Dick stops and takes a breath. "The suspect pool for this unsub is infinitely huge. Everyone in Gotham has motive against him."

"True, but the wounds that he suffered were calculated; meant to be in places where it hurt the most but did not necessarily kill him." Bruce's gloved hands reach over and close the trash bag. "Our unsub is highly intelligent and is an expert with firearms and knifes."

"What about E.T.D?" Dick asks, watching as his mentor ties the trash bag up.

"Sometime between April and May."

"April _and_ May?" Dick gasps. "He went missing around the beginning of May, has he been dead this entire time then? Where did you even find him?"

Bruce securely knots the trash bag.

"Lucius found him on the balcony of my office. Said that he didn't see it at first until he went out there to clean."

Dick scrunches his face.

"How—"

"—I don't know how it ended up there." Bruce begins walking away from the younger man besides him. "I checked all of the cameras, motion sensors— there was nothing. Chances are that he's been up there this entire time, Dick."

"It doesn't make any—"

"—I know, chum. I know." Bruce interrupts him again.

Dick almost cringes. He hasn't been called that since Jason died. Nonetheless, he follows his father figure when suddenly, Bruce's heavy steps stop in place.

"Stay here, you'll need to explain this to Tim." Bruce simply says. "Also, have make sure that you get rid of the smell in the Cave."

"Wait, where are you going?" Dick hastens behind his mentor.

There is a small silence that floated into the air for a moment. No words escaped Bruce's mouth. It was as if he was hesitant about saying what he wanted to say. _Odd,_ Dick thought. Bruce usually said whatever shit he wanted to say, no matter what it was; unless he was trying to hide something from the said person or people he was talking to. Then, was Bruce hiding something from him? From Tim? Alfred? Maybe Babs and her father as well?

"...To take out the trash."

And with those simple words, Bruce disappeared into the night.

Baffled, Dick returns to the Batcomputer. A wave of uneasiness washes over Dick, his legs wish to follow Bruce but his mind stops him. Bruce not being in the cave gives him the perfect opportunity to snoop around. Maybe Bruce left some things behind, it didn't look like anything was cleaned up before he and Tim got here. He taps on a random key on the lit up keyboard to turn it back on and glances up at the large holographic screen.

_'Unknown DNA,'_ He quickly reads.

_'Unknown DNA:_

_Match found._

_Jason Todd.'_

Suddenly, Dick can no longer breathe. The rotten stench lingers.


	8. Sense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is trying to make sense of things.

It's been four months since the Joker has died, assuming if he died around the same time he went missing. It's been three months since the Red Hood showed up.

The Red Hood kills criminals he deems unworthy to live: pedophiles, rapists, and crime lords. He's teamed up with Black Mask for unknown reasons, and it's unsettling the Batman.

It's only been a couple hours since Bruce disposed of the trash and the night is still young.

The Red Hood has the Joker's old namesake and appeared three weeks after the Joker had gone missing. The other set of DNA found on his body... Bruce can't get it out of his head. How on earth was it possible?

An hour ago, Bruce found himself at the grave of his son. Nothing was found unsettling, nothing unusual at his grave site. A burning sensation spread from his heart and into his veins; what sick bastard dared to dig up his son's resting corpse and plant it with the Joker's? But who else would have known that it was the Joker who had killed his son? Who else had known his son and himself enough to put the trash onto his balcony of his very own building? Dick, Clark, and Alfred would have never done such thing. Diana would have straight out told him if she killed the Joker. No one from the Justice League would do this. But, who did? Who knew? Was it one of his enemies? But which one? Dick was right: the suspect pool for this crime was infinitely large. Everyone had a motive to kill the Joker.

It takes thirty minutes for Bruce to finally dig through the grave and the sight of the casket almost terrifies him.

The wood is splintered and broken outwards, like something scratched and broke its way out of it. The white silk placed inside of the casket is bloody and shredded. A shoe, one of the Oxfords that Bruce had custom made for Jason, and a couple of bloody fingernails laid where his son were to be.

His ice cold eyes grow colder at the sight of the grave. Someone _hurt_ his son, someone _took_ his son— they _took_ him away _again!_ Flames ignite through his veins. _'Never again,'_ the father thinks. He'll take the trash out _this_ time.

All he could feel is the burning sensation of pure rage— how _dare_ they, how dare they take his son away a _second time!_

His son.

His _baby._

He was just a _boy._

Jason _clawed_ and _crawled_ his way out of his own casket.

His son is _alive._

His son is alive but his son is gone. Someone took him. Where did he go? How was this possible? Did someone force him to come back to life again? They must have. The dead doesn't come back. Bruce knows that because Thomas and Martha never returned. The Flying Graysons didn't return. It's impossible for Jason to return without any foul play. Someone took his baby and planted his remains on the Joker's corpse.

Someone obviously knew their identities. Someone knows who he is, someone know who Jason is, someone knows where Jason is. They probably know Dick's and Tim's identities as well, maybe even Stephanie's, Cass's, and Barbara's as well.

Bruce doesn't like this. His _whole_ family has been compromised. His whole family is in _danger._

Bruce returns to the cave with Jason's empty casket.

"B, what the hell?" Dick immediately yells as soon as Bruce steps out of the batmobile.

"Where's Tim?" Bruce avoids the question, as always.

"I sent him home." Dick replies, watching as Bruce carefully carries the empty casket to the steel table.

Dick's eyebrows furrow and he releases a gasp.

"B, what the _fuck?!"_ He yells. He knows who the casket belongs to, despite not being at the funeral. He's seen photos. Dick hastily follows behind his guardian.

Dick rips off his Kevlar mask, his sky tinted orbs filled with rage and confusion. He wants answers immediately.

Bruce's gloved fingers reach his cowl and pulls it down. He stares into the eyes of his first son, his own eyes filled a cold rage with hints of guilt and a sort of sorrow, but his stance remains calm and neutral.

"Someone _took_ him, Dick." He starts. "Someone took Jay and they planted _his_ DNA on the Joker's."

Dick visibly is confused but angered, Bruce could feel the heat radiating from him.

_"Chum,"_ Bruce continues hesitantly. "I think... I think Jay _crawled_ out of his own casket."

They both stand there, enraged and full of shock and sorrow, only silence between them.

And then Bruce explains everything. Dick sighs and vigorously massages his forehead; it's quite late and the sudden flood of information of the current situation eats at his brain. His striped fingers massage and massage, in hopes that the stress headache will gradually disappear. He's wrong. What will they tell Tim? Babs? Cass? Steph? Commissioner Gordon? What the _fuck_ is going on? _How_ the fuck did this happen in the _first_ place? 

Dick inhales and exhales deeply. 

"Then what are we waiting for?" Dick finally answers. "Let's catch this fucking bastard."

And for once, Bruce doesn't scold him for cursing.

Bruce takes a look at Dick; black and blue— his uniform. Black and blue: the color of his shining and cheerful eyes and it's dark circles. Black and blue: the numerous bruises he probably carries under the surface of his clothing. Dick is tired, Bruce observes. Dick should stay, he thinks. A powerful tug swings from his chest: 'must protect,' it says. 'Must protect family.'

"No," Bruce answers. "You should stay. I'll finish up here. You have to work your day job tomorrow."

"I'll call in, say it's a family emergency." He protests.

Bruce sighs.

"Fine, do whatever you want." He tiredly agrees with his son.

And so, Father and Son quickly and intensely investigate the casket of the their beloved dead one for answers. The Bat has been defeated by the Father.


	9. The Start of A Scarlet Rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing children, never to be investigated.  
> Missing children, never to be found alive.  
> Jason’s rage burns scarlet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya bitch is back for a bit. See ya in whenever? I felt like I needed to bring the story back to Jason’s point of view. Also I heavily edited the first chapter but if you’re reading this after March 26th, 2018, you should be fine.

Jason isn't surprised when he hears about missing children of color and children of the lower class. He isn't surprised when they show up dead either, with or without the help of local authorities. Batman has existed for almost 20 years and kids are still going missing and being murdered. 

_Pathetic_. A sorry excuse for someone who claims to be the hero Gotham needs. 

Jason isn't surprised but, boy, is he _scarlet_ with rage. 

"Have you heard of anything regarding missing children?" His voice is soft and kind as he leans on the red brick wall of the alley. 

The brown bag gently wrinkled from the pressure of his arm. He watches as Jacob, the young boy who lead the children away from hunger earlier, savors the taste of Jason's homemade tamales. 

"A girl, Sasha." Jacob says after gulping down a bite. "Used to hang around the corner of the Bowery with the other corner girls. Last time I saw her was when I gathered the others for dinner last Friday. Haven't seen her since."

Jacob leans on the alley wall as well, taking another bite from his tamale. 

"What's she look like?" Jason asks, handing him another tamale from the brown bag. Jacob happily grabs it with his terra-cotta hands. 

"Russian-Chinese, I think." Jacob looks to his right. "Light skin and mono-lid brown eyes. Black hair. I didn't know her much but she told me her mother abandoned her in order to return to her family. She and her father moved to Gotham from God knows where for a better life. Uncle's in a gang around here but I can't remember which one."

Another tamale is thrown by Jason and lands in the arms of the younger boy. 

"Ah, my memory is clear once again." Jacob teases. "Her uncle is apart of Professor Pyg's gang. That's all I know though." 

The sound of crumbling startles the young boy, forcing him to look up to Jason. Jason is at least a foot and a half taller than he. The top of Jacob's kinky hair only reaches Jason's bicep.  The brown bag's top is folded and is dropped into Jacob's full hands. Metal clinks can be heard as the bag collides with Jacob's stolen silver watch. 

"Gather up the other kids, chico." Jason's black gloves point at the brown paper bag. "Inside are enough tamales to eat for at least the entire night and morning, an address, and keys for the said address. Stay there until I say it's safe to come back out into the streets. Should be enough food in the two fridges to eat until I come back." 

"Gracias, Señor Hood." Jacob pushes himself from the brick wall and jogs away with the goods. He doesn't look back. 

Jason always sends Jacob off to find the other kids to hide away when he needed them to be off the streets ever since last week. It was a good system; the kids weren’t holed up there forever, they had the freedom to return to the streets if they wanted to, and it kept them safe and feed for the night. 

Jason didn’t remember a Professor Pyg when he was still Robin, but that was okay. It only showed how much of a “difference” Batman was making. 

It doesn’t take him long to get information from the lower thugs and corner girls he comes across. 

“Something about some drugs,” Cherry tells him. “I heard a couple of things about it before you showed up in Gotham; they used it to control some girls.”

 _Oh,_ Jason thought. _Okay,_ so basically, this fucker needed to die _tonight._

“I’ve only heard small things about it, I swear!” The small-time thug exclaims as Jason’s boot increasingly digs deeper into his pulse. “Something about d-dolls! H-He makes dolls out of people! Calls them, Dollotrons!”

 _Oh,_ Jason repeats. So, he _really_ needed to die tonight.

It takes even less time when Jason storms into the headquarters of the smaller gangs, the ones who had girls hooked up into Pyg’s drugs. The bodies of the gang members are cleaned up before the night ends, courtesy of the Red Hood gang. Jason knows that Gotham has too many trauma centers than a normal city should have and he doesn’t plan on making it worse for the people of Gotham to deal with. 

The girls are taken to the nearest safehouse for care and questioning. He promises to return before the end of the night with answers and hope for a new life. By the time he leaves them in the care of the members of his gang, he’s already formulating some sort of regime the girls could do if they go into withdrawal; what needs could be provide them? He’ll need a place for them to stay to recover, food and water. 

“Hey, Red?” A voice reaches out to him, throwing him out of his thoughts. Jason turns back to look at his right-hand man, Finn Haynes. 

Finn was a homeless veteran whose family had left him after he came back from his third tour in Afghanistan. He lost his right leg and suffered burns on his entire right body during his last tour. Discharged from the Marines and his family gone, Finn was left in the streets. Jason took no longer than a second to recruit him into his crusade. It wasn’t unusual, the majority of the gang members were veterans. 

“What is it, Haynes?” Jason inquired, stepping into Haynes’ personal bubble, his head lowered. Haynes was a couple of inches shorter than Jason.

“The last time I heard about my family, they lived around that amusement park.” Haynes’ dark eyes plead silently, his baked sienna skin beaded with sweat. “Do you mind if... if you check on them for me?” 

Before committing mass murder, Jason had extracted intel from the gang that Pyg’s hideout was located in Amusement Mile. 

“Of course, man.” Jason’s gloved band gently patted Haynes’ shoulder. “Don’t even got to ask, Finn.” 

Haynes thanked him and let Jason be off on his merry way.

When Jason arrives at the entrance of the amusement park, the Ferris Wheel in sight, Jason couldn’t help but feel the burning of a deep rage in his chest. 

This used to be the Joker’s hideout at one point. 

How hard was it for the city of Gotham to tear down the place and rebuild something new? How hard was it for Gotham to throw away painful memories and create happier ones for the next generation? It’s no wonder this place was abandoned. The rides are rusty and overridden with ivy, like some post-apolypotic zombie movie. Bruce certainly had enough money to tear this place down and rebuild it. 

Bruce has so much money, he funded the Watchtower. He has so much money that every time some alien enemy destroys the Watchtower, he rebuilds it. Bruce has no problem recreating and fixing up his military grade, bulletproof, and high performing Batmoblie. He has no problem redesigning and upgrading his ridiculous furry suit; upgrading and rebuilding that giant super expensive computer of his; but apparently he has a problem of spending money improving the infrastructure of the city he claims to protect? 

Fuck you, Bruce. You _fake_ ass, _phony_ ass _bitch_ ; fucking _choke._

Jason marches right into the amusement park, his guns loaded and ready to go. When Jason reaches the Fun House, he expects to see the stereotypical dark mirrored walls, but comes across a well lit building, mimicking the hallways of a hospital or clinic. The mirrors are covered by white sheets and the cement floor has been carpeted. Like a hospital room, where white sheets separate paitents, he isn’t surprised when the same white sheets are being used here for the same purpose. Jason stops in his tracks when he sees five pair of feet hiding behind one. 

He almost jumps back when the sheet is immediately pulled and— _what are those?!_

The five misfigured things run towards him— five _Pennywise_ lookin’ bitches do not hesitate to sprint towards Jason and in a panic, Jason fires his guns at their legs. As they fall to the ground, immobile from their wounds, Jason mentally takes a breath. 

_Okay,_ he thinks. This motherfucker is _definitely_ dying tonight.


	10. Red On The Floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s some red on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol I don’t know how to write.

Jason examines the moaning _Pennywise_ looking things. Though their arms still intact and mobile, some dare not to move while the others shamelessly crawl towards Jason's feet. Jason internally cringes and carefully steps out of their way. What the _fuck_ did he get himself in to?! How many more _clowns_ does he have to kill before he dies... _again?!_ The universe be playin' too much... 

Jason shakes his head, his hands reaching to the switch on his guns; lethal to non-lethal, bullets to electric charges. With a simple tug on his triggers, the five unknown things are shot down one by one with electric charges. 

_Okay,_ he shouldn't have shot them but at the same time... they _freaked_ him out. _Okay,_ that doesn't _necessarily_ mean that he should shoot them but what's done is done. Jason don’t fuck with any clown ass bitches, but these things didn’t choose to be a clown ass bitch. They too, are victims. 

Jason's celadon orbs make a sweep over the room twice before clearing five beds for the clown looking things. He quickly carries them over his broad shoulders and under his arms and gently lies them down. The bullets went through their legs and most likely shattered their femurs but Jason doesn't have the time to properly care for their wounds tonight. 

He checks if their circulation, airway, breathing, deformity, and exposure before moving them. Jason wastes no time and adeptly bandages their wounds with the right amount of pressure to stop the bleeding. He makes a note to come back for them later, after he kills Pyg. These _Pennywise_ things must be the Dollotrons the thug was talking about. 

Okay, Jason _really_ shouldn't have shot them. But at least he always has his specialized medical kit with him? After all, all that _begging_ he did for Talia to send him to Princeton for medical school was no easy feat. Especially when he spent his summers and breaks with the League and All Caste. Jason would never let his training nor hardships fuck him up on the job.

Jason wanders the rest of the odd room, passing by the other Pennywise Dollotrons who've been laying on those beds. Some of them are children, their futures ripped out and away from them. He's tried speaking to the conscious ones but they all jump at him and attack him. He ends up subduing them back to bed, observing their features. 

Jason notices the scars on their faces and bodies. These people were mutilated against their own will. Gentials carved out and sewn; masks implanted inside their own face. Head shaven and replaced with matted synthetic scarlet hair— placed poorly with a very high hairline: Pennywise lookin’ ass hairdo, to be specific. 

Pyg... he a _dirty_ motherfucker, that’s for sure. Not only does he kidnap adults and children alike, he mutilates and drugs them against their own will, and then has the _audacity_ to make them look Pennywise! _Disgusting_... He _gotta_ die tonight. 

On a serious thought, if these people were drugged into becoming these things, then maybe the drug will wear out in a certain amount of time. Surely the affects of the drugs will have to wear out some time. As for the mutilation, Jason’s sure there must be a way to heal them. Maybe he’ll be able to reverse it? Take out the mask at least. He’ll definitely come back for them, the scarlet children. 

He walks silently until he comes across a door. The door slams open with a thud, a Dollotron flying right into his arms. What in the hell? Jason takes a good look at the Dollotron in his arms; they've certainly been battered with possible fractured bones. Jason gently and swiftly lays them onto the nearest empty bed and immediately charges into the dark hallway, his guns switched from non-lethal to lethal. 

In the darkness, he vaguely sees three figures taking down multiple Dollotrons. One particularly has pointy straight horns poking out from his head.

All of the blood rushes to Jason's heart in an explosive reaction. _Oh, fuck no!_ Jason keeps his eyes on the Bat, sprinting at full speed as Batman does the same— he's heading for Professor Pyg, who stands in the middle of the labyrinth operating on whatever laid on his metal slab. 

He’s gonna have to beat Bruce to Pyg— _kill_ him before Bruce stops him. The hallway is shaped like a spiral and at the end of the hallway lies Pyg. 

Jason has no problem dodging away the crowd of Dollorons in his way. He’s trying to minimize the damage the Dollotrons take. 

Small hands grab into his sandy leather jacket, Jason has to push them away gently without hurting them. He reminds himself that their victims and don’t deserve to be beaten up for doing something they have no control of. His eyes are on his foster father and it isn’t until a harsh kick to his helmet that he realizes that someone had been hit on his trail as well. 

“Hood!” A voice screams at him. 

Jason heeds no attention to the older man and runs even faster. Bruce hasn’t reached Pyg just yet.

A strong hand grips around Jason’s bicep, pulling him backwards— away from his destination. _Fucking, Dick! Leave me the fuck alone!_ Jason’s gloved fingers immediately dig into Nightwing’s and force him off of him. 

“You’re not going anywhere, Hood!” Dick shouts, his voice filled with venom. His hands rewrap themselves around Jason’s bicep and pulls a punch. 

Jason doesn’t flinch when the punch collided with his red helmet and he doesn’t stop running either. The Dollorons surround the two, swarming them like moths to a flame. It’s to crowded for either to move. 

“Damn it, dickhead!” Jason screams at Dick. The older man flinches from the crude nickname. Jason doesn’t hesitantly use that split second to push his once older brother away from him, paving a space between him and the Dollotrons. Jason turns to look at Professor Pyg’s progress and if Batman had already reached him or not. Jason is almost thankful to the Gods when he spots that he hasn’t. 

It’s like time has slowed down for a moment. Dick’s body still colliding into the Pennywise looking minions, Bruce running towards Professor Pyg. The pig silently slicing away whatever that poor girl had left as she laid on that steel platter of doom. Jason can’t hear anything. It’s like his underwater; water in his ears, water in his lungs— it’s like he was drowning in the pit again, with Talia calling out to him. 

On reflex, his hands pull out his guns and with a simple pull on the triggers; the bullets exit the barrel of the guns and spiral themselves into the head of the Pyg. Blood splatters from his head and into the stone floor, his body tipping over from the loss of life.

He’s distracted until his head is slammed into the cold ground. _Well,_ at least he had his helmet on. Not to mention, Pyg’s dead. But now the challenge arises: just how the _hell_ was he gonna get out of this one? Because now, there’s two reds on the floor. 


	11. Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Moonlight, uh._  
>  Spotlight, uh.  
> Why you always trippin’, get your mood right, uh.  
> Shawty looks good in the moonlight, uh.  
> So why you so bad mind, uh.  
> Spotlight, uh.  
> Moonlight, uh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xxxtentaction’s album, “?”, is lowkey Jason Todd.  
> Also, sorry about the super long hiatus— i got caught up with life.

Nightwing’s hands and body weight push Jason further into the cement, Jason’s arm pushed and crossed behind his back. Jason swings his legs, flying them into the air and creating enough speed and strength to flip his 250 pounds of dead weight against the older man. Dick doesn’t give out easily either, his fingers struggling to hold onto Jason’s forearms. But it doesn’t last very long. Jason’s a lot stronger now, thanks to the effects of the Lazarus Pit and his training. All it takes is a couple of surges of resistance and all hands off the deck. It also helps that Dick’s overwhelmed with Dollorons who’ve found the gunshots from his pistols interesting, like a horde of zombies. 

The second Nightwing is off of Jason, the younger man harshly kicks his predecessor in the esophagus. Dick makes odd and harsh grunts as he struggles to breathe air into his lungs and whatever skin the mask doesn’t cover is covered in a blush red. Jason pushes himself from the ground and looks over to the stone railing to see his handiwork: Pyg in a pool of his own blood. He smirks under his helmet. 

He could hear Dick calling out to him, but not like that mattered. Jason needs to escape from the Dollotrons as soon as possible and he’s found the fastest and most convenient way to do so. He jumps over the concrete railing and rolls his landing.

There are many things he could do: he can run away, he can fight, or he can try and take the girl on the metal slab for further information on the Dollotrons to turn them back. The latter two takes more time and effort than the first one. 

Moonlight seeps through the cracks of the crumbling building. Small beams of light reflected from the blood stained metal slab and the unsanitary surgical equipment. How anyone would want to do business with Pyg in the first place almost amazed Jason.

Within a blink, Jason pulls out his guns and switches them from lethal to non-lethal. Without a second thought, he raises one to Nightwing and pulls the trigger. He needs to be able to get the girl and himself out of here as quickly as possible. Dick shudders from the electricity running through his body and promptly falls to the concrete ground. Jason jumps from the railing to the bottom of the labyrinth, rolling to soften his landing.

“Nightwing!” A voice calls out worriedly.

Not even a second when he rises from the stone cold ground, a batarang comes flying at his head. Jason turns to Bruce, the man himself rushing at him full speed ahead. A gauntlet flying directly to his chest and a head butt on its way. The new adult back steps immediately, husband head ducking away from the flying gauntlet. Jason throws a punch of his own towards the old man’s lungs. Bruce flies from the impact, the air winded out of his airways. He doesn’t have time to fight. He’ll deal with Bruce later. Jason pulls the trigger faster than Bruce can recover, the old man grunting in pain as the electricity flows through his armor. 

If he runs with the girl on the slab, there’s no telling what the Bats will do with the rest of the Dollotrons. Jason doesn’t think that the Bats will give them the care they need immediately, considering that the only one in the family who has proper medical knowledge is Alfred and the Robin who came after him— and last time he checked, his successor was “dead.” Alfred taking care of _all_ the Dollotrons? Impossible. At least Jason was lucky that Talia has sent him “reinforcements,” her eternally loyal servants (and thankfully, _all_ of them have medical training), to his aid and for him to use at his disposal.

He has to drive away them bitches— the Bats— and there’s nothing he can think at the moment besides than forcing them to retreat. He’ll have to _hurt_ them. Not that he wasn’t planning to do so anyways.

Jason’s heavy steps makes their way to Bruce and without a second wasted, Jason roundhouses the kneeling man. Cracks could be heard from the impact of his knee colliding with Bruce’s neck. Bruce growls in pain, his body hurled from the superhuman collision. A boot rests on the bat insignia and Jason only pushes harder. Jason watches as the man he once idolized try to recover from Jason’s super strength, his black gloved fingers grilling into his ankles. He must’ve thought that Red Hood was some sort of meta but Jason wasn’t gonna blame him. Jason aims his pistol at Bruce's chest and pulls the trigger. Four shots shot into the Bat's chest in a shape of a rhombus; an allusion to the past, but not that the Bat knew... At least not yet.

“B!” Dick yelled, a wingding flung out of his fingers and deflected from Jason’s armored chest. Did he really think that that would have stopped Jason? Jason internally sighs. The _disrespect_ from this damn family. 

Nightwing's leg appears at the side of his neck no more than a second later, only to be harshly grabbed by Jason and flung away with pure force. Dick always liked flying anyways.

Dick lands on the concrete floor, his back shattering the cement underneath him. A painful grunt passes his lips as he struggles to recover by turning over to his sides.

Jason would love for this fight to continue but... His celadon orbs flicker towards the young girl still strapped onto the cold metal slab. The sights of the other children from the infirmary from before flip through his mind. _’Damn...’_ He thinks to himself. The flames are reignited from his chest and through his veins, newfound rage and fight spread to his fingertips and legs. He doesn’t have a choice. This ends now. 

With the gun in his hands, the trigger at his fingers; Jason points it to the black suit. And with a little push of his gloved fingers, the sound of the gunshot roars into the air, and the loud thud of a 200 pound man falling to the ground echoes the labyrinth. 

”Batman!” Nightwing calls. His adopted father and mentor isn’t moving, Dick can’t tell if he’s even breathing— they need to get him out of here before— a loud high pitched clunk rings from the concrete and the sound of hissing screams into his ears. The smell of gas rises into the air and the labyrinth fogs up in a terrible grey smoke. The sounds of a thousand footsteps rain and emit from the railings; the Dollotrons march their ways down the labyrinth and into the basement. A loud thud rings into the smoky air as Nightwing tries to recover from his fall. The noise vibrates the concrete beneath his feet, Dick fears that it will break beneath him. Coughs violently exit his scratchy throat and the smoke enters his lungs without his consent. 

_’Shit,’_ Nightwing ponders. Black spots and fog blind him; he can no longer see Bruce or the Red Hood, he can’t even see the damn floor. The pumping of his heart accerlate and fill his eardrums; he can no longer hear the footsteps of the Dollorons or the Red Hood. His arms and legs weigh tons, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth— he’s helpless, _vulnerable_. There isn’t anything he can do expect to embrace the coldness of the concrete ground. 

The moonlight shines through the evaporating gas and fog; Dollotrons scattered on the flooring of the labyrinth, the mighty Batman bleeding from the penetrations in his chest, and his son unresponsive. The Red Hood stands above them, his tan leather jacket spotted with specks of red, and his helmet full of cracks on one side. The moonlight hovers above him like a spotlight, a reminder that he has won this battle. Celadon orbs scan the bodies, and a gasp escapes from Jason’s lips as he stares at the small skinny body of a boy in the colors of green, yellow, and red.

No wonder the Dollotrons took a while to reach the bottom of the labyrinth.


End file.
